


Canticle

by Amelia_Clark



Series: 30 Day Cheesy Trope Challenge [22]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, Episode: s10e14 The Executioner's Song, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Sad smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 23:19:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3399962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelia_Clark/pseuds/Amelia_Clark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's slept for fourteen hours when the door creaks and Cas slips into his room, into bed beside him. Dean is too exhausted to protest, can't even remember why he should; so when Cas moves up behind him on the mattress, slings an arm over his waist, and tucks his own knees behind Dean's, Dean just relaxes into it, allows himself for once to be soothed by Cas's touch.</p><p>He sleeps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Canticle

**Author's Note:**

> **#14: Stripper AU**  
>  No strippers per se, but there is slow taking off of clothes while another person watches. Let's pretend that counts. (Also, I'm sorry.)

Dean's slept for fourteen hours when the door creaks and Cas slips into his room, into bed beside him. Dean is too exhausted to protest, can't even remember why he should; so when Cas moves up behind him on the mattress, slings an arm over his waist, and tucks his own knees behind Dean's, Dean just relaxes into it, allows himself for once to be soothed by Cas's touch.

He sleeps.

When Dean wakes again, Cas is still with him, lying there in coat and shoes on top of the sheets. His hand is splayed out over Dean's stomach, and when Dean turns over a little he meets Cas's eyes, that steady blue gaze. Cas looks so sad all the time now, Dean thinks, and it's not like he can blame him, not at all.

"Thanks, man," Dean says.

"Dean," Cas says back, or at least that's the sound he makes. Dean's pretty sure what he's really saying, and he hates how much he wants to hear it, how much he can’t bring himself to ask. "Dean, you gave me the Blade."

"Yeah," says Dean. He doesn’t say _because you'll need to kill me with it, someday soon, before you die._ They never say these things; Dean doesn't know whether it would change anything if they did.

"Dean," Cas says again, "please," and he raises his hand to brush so gently over the cuts on Dean's face. He doesn't heal them—not enough mojo to spare—but there's still a jolt to his touch, a white light sparking between them.

Dean lets Cas kiss him.

And kiss him again, and again; Dean leans towards him with a whimper when Cas moves away, stands up beside the bed and starts taking off his clothes.

Dean watches, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat. Cas sheds his coat, toes off his shoes. He tugs on the knot of his tie (and when did he start wearing a tie again?), pulls till it's draped loose around his neck. He undoes the buttons of his collar, like Dean coached him before his non-date with Nora; but he keeps going, slowly unbuttoning his shirt one-handed, still staring at Dean. Dean keeps breaking the gaze to take in the sight of Cas's chest; he hasn't seen this much of Cas's skin since he helped carve a banishing sigil into that chest—then, he'd touched him as little as possible, without looking at his face, unwilling to see the fury and disappointment reflected there.

Now, when Cas shrugs off his shirt, his chest is unmarked, unexpectedly golden. Does he sunbathe when no one's looking, Dean wonders, or does he somehow tan from within, from the grace simmering under the surface? Dean thinks he should probably take off his own shirt, reach for Cas, do something, but he's frozen, hollow. The Mark pulses on his arm.

Cas unzips his pants, wiggles them down his thighs; he's got plain white boxers on, his hard-on tenting the thin fabric. He pauses with his hands on the waistband. "Tell me to keep going, Dean," he says, voice like the rumble of thunder too far away to worry about.

Dean closes his eyes, throws off the sheet. "No, don't," he says, "let me."

It still takes conscious effort to move. Dean has to shove aside so much crap, the shame of wanting Cas like this in the first place, the greater shame of not taking what he knows Cas has silently offered for years. The Mark is louder now that Cain is dead, like a full-body migraine; he feels like he hasn't slept at all.

But he can do this. He killed Cain, stabbed him in the back and didn't turn the Blade on anyone else—if he's still got the self-control not to kill the people he loves (or Crowley), he's not lost yet. He's still Dean Winchester, and Dean Winchester has wanted Castiel, Angel of the Lord, for so long.

So he pulls Cas back onto the bed, shoves a hand into his boxers to hold his dick out of the way of the elastic. Cas helps him remove them completely, kisses him again, more insistent than before.

Neither of them speaks while they work Dean's clothes off; any noises they make disappear into the other's mouth, the other's skin. Cas climbs on top of him, slots his thigh between Dean's legs, rocks their hips together. Dean's shaking as he gropes for Cas's cock, blocks out everything but the hot length of it in his hand, rubs his thumb over the head. Cas hisses and bites at Dean's lower lip.

It's impossible, this first time ( _this only time,_ says a mocking voice in Dean's head; he ignores it), for Dean to let go completely, to feel everything he's pent up inside. It's too much. Cas is too much, gasping against Dean's neck, jerking him off with quick, long strokes.

Fuck, Dean loves him so goddamn much.

He thinks it, so hard— _I love you Cas, I love you, I can't do this without you_ —as he comes over Cas's fist. Maybe he's still angel enough to hear it. Maybe he understands, maybe this is enough.

He pushes Cas off of him onto his back, ducks his head to go down on him. He's barely got Cas's cock in his mouth when Cas comes with a sharp little cry, and Dean's never thought about whether he spits or swallows, but he manages not to choke at least, licks as much of Cas's come off his face as he can reach.

The rush of orgasm subsides, and Dean expects it all to come flooding back, shame and fear and the way the blood-thirst buzzes in his arm, his temples, the back of his teeth. But it doesn't. He's calm for the first time in weeks.

He should say something, while it lasts. _I'm scared. I'm sorry. Stop trying to save me. I've never deserved it._

Instead, he sinks back into sleep. 

When he wakes again, Cas is gone.


End file.
